Comfort
by Rune-Spirit
Summary: Violet stream of consciousness drabble on Tate and her mother's health immediately after Rubberman.
1. Comfort

R_S: Just a short stream of consciousness drabble I wrote about Violet, postep from Rubberman.

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><p><strong>Comfort<strong>

The house was quiet as death, surrounding Violet in its dark stillness. Her form lay motionless, staring numbly from the bed as silent, slow tears dripped down her nose. Tate had gone to the kitchen to make her some tea, still so sweet about the entire ordeal and desperate to comfort her. She was really lucky to have him, since there was never anybody else. Even that dopy adorable dog was suspiciously MIA, though she wondered if perhaps it had been as neglected by her moron parents as she and had been left to die. Secretly, she had been checking his food and water… the poor animal should not have to suffer as well. But maybe it was already dead by the time she got around to it. Maybe it was really just her in the house, just her and Tate. Her father had gone to ensure everything went right with her mother's incarceration… the one she had condemned her to.

She shivered at that thought, pulling the blankets up around her. She should not have lied, she knew it was wrong. She was angry but not stupid, and she did not want her mother to suffer. But god, it felt like she _had_ to do it. Her mother was fucking losing it, seeing their attackers aside. She was eating raw brains for fuck's sake! Being in a house full of ghosts would only serve to exacerbate the situation, so maybe this was for the best. She could rest and get well so she could have those new babies. So she could be ready to fuck them up as badly as she had fucked up her first kid. That's what she told herself, anyway. It was a better excuse than just not wanting to be separated from her boyfriend at least.

Tate… how could a boy so tortured be such an angel? Violet loathed to ever agreeing with a bitch like Constance, but she was right about some things; he had the soft, sweet soul of a poet. How a terrible mother like her could bring forth such a selfless man was beyond her. He had done so much evil in her life, had such a dark soul, but he was just so good now. He always seemed so sweet and innocent and pure. Fuck, sometimes he made her feel like she was a dirty psychotic freak, with the way he looked at her through his big tearful doe eyes and the way he professed his love to her like she was the only thing in the world. He swore he would never let her get hurt. She was tough, she didn't _need_ anybody, but being with him did seem to make everything better.

When he saw her the next day, knowing she had stayed, he had practically wept with relief… in fact, she thought he maybe did cry a little bit. He cried a lot, like her dad. Sometimes, it was a little girly, but Violet didn't mind it on him, for some reason. She just really hoped she wasn't developing some fucked version of the Electra complex, going after guys just like her father. Her life was certainly turning out to be fucked up enough to foster some daddy issues. It was difficult to remember precisely whether or not he'd cried that day, most of it was a big blur.

Everything that morning was eclipsed by the memory of what they had done after, the way she had shared herself with him so completely. That was a really gay way of putting it, she thought, but it had just been so… calling it intense did not seem to do it justice. The way he stared into her eyes, it seemed as though he was gazing directly into her soul. It was Tate's idea this time, something she never would have expected and meant a lot to her. She knew he loved her, he had made that much more than clear, and it was a connection, what was on the inside that counted (or so she had always been told). But after the night on the beach, when he couldn't even get himself ready for her, she wondered. Yeah he liked her, but what if he didn't think she was pretty? What if he would have told his friends in life (if he had any) when asked to describe her that she had 'a great personality?' What if he just wasn't physically attracted to her? But he was. He made certain to let her know when they were finally intimate. That wasn't why he did it, though, not really. He wanted to show her how he felt, to celebrate her staying with him. And Violet wanted to make sure she gave him part of herself, just in case she never saw him again. She could not describe it in truthfulness, the way it made her feel and how connected she was to Tate from it.

She was seriously fucked up, Violet knew. He was dead and a killer and a psychiatric patient and probably a whole slew of other things… But he was brilliant and beautiful and so true. He was so sexy by just existing; it still struck her whenever she saw him, and she noticed again as he returned to the bedroom. Tate didn't lie, didn't bullshit like everyone else in her life. And she found herself with a funny thought nagging at the back of her brain, as he made sure she took at least a sip of tea and a bite of toast before setting them on her nightstand. He turned on some dim lighting and soft music, curling himself around her with strong, safe arms and face nuzzling into her neck. He was so gentle, comforting yet content just to lay with her. Part of her wanted to pull him down to her for round two of the day, to do something that would take her mind off of everything. She was too tired, though. For some reason, she didn't doubt that he would be willing to go along with it if she had the energy, eager to do so even. It almost hurt that he seemed slightly celebratory, but she knew not to be put off by it. He just loved her so much that he was relieved she wouldn't leave. But he wouldn't turn this into a celebration or make the first move to be more physical with her tonight. He understood, understood everything and her more than anyone before ever had. The thought comforted her that she'd never be alone, never be without him as she curled into his chest and drifted into a depressed relaxation.

And that strange thought sifted through her mind as she fell asleep.

If Tate ever was less than perfect, even for a moment, would she even see it? Or, did she need him more than she could even comprehend?

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><p><span>R_S:<span> So yeah, this was just written as a little fun to kill time until the next episode. I must be pretty sick if I'm still rooting for Violate haha.

Reviews would be super nice!


	2. Real

R_S: I really liked how my last one turned out, and I'm really clinging to the end of Violate before all the shit hits the fan, so I thought I'd throw a bit more out there.

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><p><strong>Comfort<strong>

**Part II**

**Real**

"I didn't do it for you."

Her words were not meant to hurt him, not really. Violet just liked the truth. Her favorite word was bullshit, because it was the most real to her. Every day she was inundated with lies, surrounded by the pandering mess of her parents and their secrets. She did not want Tate to think that it was all for him, to mislead a person she cared about. The truth was what she needed and that was always the way he liked it, because she knew how scary he could be when he blew up about a lie or something he did not like. She would not be the one to keep things from him (except for the whole ghost thing, but really that did not count, and she could not even think about that right then, with everything else going on). But the way he was curled around her comfortingly, like he fucking _cared_ and wanted to make the hurt go away and like he felt guilty that he helped get her precious mommy sent away; that pissed her the fuck off. Maybe they _were_ meant to hurt him, because that was what she did when she was hurting. Misery loves company and dammit, it was his fault she was miserable, him and all those other fucking ghosts, and he should have to suffer too.

He did not answer, just looked down at her softly like he understood and would just listen. Tate did not need to ask what she was talking about, even with the sudden admittance into the dim light. It was the only thing she had said since she spoke to her father earlier that night. Her words spilled out like water from a broken dam, washing away her dignity and what little hold on reality she thought she had left.

"She just looked so small, so lost… With my dad's bullshit cheating and the stress from the house and everything else, I really think she was losing it. What if she hurt herself; hurt the babies? Or if she found out about the ghosts and everyone here and just… shit, I did the right thing. I know I did. If I started talking crazy bullshit about ghosts and dead killers, she'd have blown a gasket. She'd freak out about how close to death we were, or run herself into the ground worrying about if I was losing my mind. But fuck, this just feels so fucking shitty…"

She found herself telling him things not to hurt him with the truth, like she thought she was, but to make sure he did not feel guilty. He should not blame himself for her loneliness, for her mother's insanity, for the soul-crushing lies and regret she was experiencing now. But, then again, maybe she _should_ blame him. After all, he gave her the advice, even if it seemed like the right thing to do.

"You're tired, a lot happened tonight. You should put something in your stomach." His lips gently brushed against her hair, and his hands smoothed it away from her forehead, before bringing a mug to her lips.

He was being so sweet now, and _god_, that fucking pissed her off even more, and she was becoming hysterical. She needed to feel real.

"When the fuck did you become Miss Suzy homemaker?" A beat, maybe of surprise from him, after the sudden mood swing, and then- "Get that shit out of my face."

He let it slide. "You've at least gotta drink something, Violet."

"Not without your frilly pink apron. Aren't you afraid I'll spill it on you?" He said nothing, just stared at her with an unreadable expression, so she continued. "I knew Moira was getting old, but damn, I didn't think you were gonna replace her. When does your uniform come in? Maybe you should go for a naughtier angle, with fishnets and garters, cuz my dad has a thing for the help, you know. And maybe that's what you need to get it up. It took you a long time with a girl, maybe you _are_ gay."

"The fuck, Vi, why are you being so mean? I'm trying to help!" He moved away from her, incredulity and annoyance coloring his features. This was better, this was feeling. She was not some goddamn porcelain doll for him to cherish and lock away. She was a real person with fucking _feelings_, and she wanted to feel angry. He always let her, always listened and validated that burning rage that rocketed through her system every god damn day. Mommy patronized her like a little girl, daddy wanted her to talk to him like her therapist instead of her father, but Tate, Tate just grinned and told her to fuck the world. She did not need him babying her like this, treating her differently than himself and the same as everyone else.

"Well don't; I don't need your fucking help, asshole."

"You're being ridiculous-"

"Aw, I'm sorry." She wasn't. Her voice was cold, mocking. "What are you gonna do? Cry? All you fucking _do_ is cry, you pussy little wimp bitch! God, grow a fucking pair, you faggot-"

"Don't talk to me that way!"

Her words were fast and careless and angry now, building on each other with desperation, just to get a rise out of him. "Oh so you can fucking dish it, but you can't take it? Making the rest of the world cry and pay is funny, but it's not so great when it's you! You think it's ok to watch your girlfriend suffer, to watch them cart my mom away and just smirk like you won something, to cause _me_ and everyone else pain, but god for-fucking-bid you get a taste of your own medicine, of your own hurt-"

"I thought you didn't do this for me!" He mocked back, fury building in his words as his mind pulling away from him and wanting to make her bleed and cry and just _shut the fuck UP_.

"Oh, I didn't Tate. I fucking _didn't_. You're not that goddamn important, you arrogant little shit. Maybe I would have if the sex had actually been good-"

"ENOUGH!" The mug smashed against the floor, shattering like Tate imagined his heart was at Violet's words. God she was so mean, such a spoiled little brat… He would give up everything for her, had to put back on that stupid rubber suit and go through all that trouble just to keep her with him. He _loved_ her, and he was doing this for her, and she didn't care. His breath escaped him in heavy pants, ragged in his chest and darkening his eyes with anger. God, he wanted to hit something. He wanted to hold her down and pull out chunks of her blond hair and fuck her until she was _obedient_ for once, just to him.

But now her big gold eyes were round and scared, and she stared up at him frozen. Gone was her snarky expression, that condescending sneer that she had painted on to yell at him and bite washed away. He realized through the fog that he had never been violent in front of her before. But it was not his fault; the stress of almost losing her was making him act out, making both of them take these things out on each other. She did not mean it; she was just scared of losing him. That was all, he knew it. Ben and Vivian and the Hayden and the whole damn house, they were trying to turn them against each other. They were jealous, jealous of how pure and good and real their love was and how they were going to be together forever. And now he had played into that trap and had scared her, and she was looking at him as though he might really turn on her next. So he smiled. He just smiled, and sat down on the bed, taking her hands in his. He could not scare her, would never scare her. He was her knight, saving her, not the dragon that kept her locked away. Her face should not be colored with fear the way it was.

"You're tired," he repeated, "a lot happened tonight. You should get some rest." Violet said nothing, just dropped her gaze away from him. Her body shook a little, he noticed. It was probably due to exhaustion- she really needed food and sleep. It was ok; he would hold her. He ignored the mess on the floor. Moira could clean that up later.

"This is all my fault…" Her voice could not have been sadder, worse even than when she said it to Ben in the foyer. It was a broken whisper, her eyes staring unfocused at the floorboards. She thought maybe for a minute she could see the remnants of where the finish had worn away, maybe from the blood stains that had colored the floor once upon a time. Blood stains from her dead boyfriend, the one she could never be with, not _really_, and yet she ruined her entire life and threw away her entire family to keep. She was seriously messed up in the head. No more rationalizing, she was going to fucking hell.

He pulled her to him, her head nestled in the crook of his neck, "You did what you had to."

"Do you think she'll still love me, when this is all over?" _Yes_. He hoped . Maybe they would hate her and blame her for everything. They would run back to Boston and leave her there alone, with no one to depend on but him. She would make a new life with him, where they would lie together all day and fuck all night and never give a fuck about the world. God he wished Ben and Vivian could hate her. But they would never, _could_ never hate their precious baby girl. They would take her from him, scoop her up in their loving embrace and be a happy family. God he wished they would hate her, but Vivian was not Constance.

"No," he said finally, "they won't… they know you love them. And they love you. So do I." He kissed her head. Violet was crying again. It occurred to him that he had never seen her this open, this vulnerable, not even when she gave him her virginity. It pissed him off, that that crazy blond bitch could get a rise out of her that he never could.

"I don't love me… I would hate me. Right now I do." He leaned down, his lips gently brushing the shell of her ear.

"Don't say that, _ever_. You're perfect, so much better than this world full of blood and shit and corruption." He wants to say more, but she cuts him off with her lips.

He feels so real. She always forgets that he feels alive, and she wonders if maybe she can make herself forget. Maybe she can just pretend hard enough that she will not remember the truth, until that day with Constance and Miss Cleo is nothing but a dull dream and then disappears all together. For now, Tate is real to her. He is warm and hard and comfortable, and he will never hurt her. She remembers how lucky she is to have him, that he is an angel and he wants her and he _loves_ her. She is strong enough to do it without him, but he makes her stronger. And he will never hurt her.

At least, she convinced herself he never will. And she let him love her to the rhythm of some soft Pearl Jam song, because even though she was still sore from that morning, at least this way she can feel and he will not be angry. She needed it, needed to feel close to him, and if the only way to do that was to take him inside her, she would, because the world is just angry and numbing, and she wanted to feel alive for just one more god damn night. He was real.

He made her feel real, too.

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><p><span>R_S:<span> That came out _much_ differently than I imagined it… I just imagined her saying the first line and thought the theme was going to be a lot similar to the first part, her pouring out grief and then Violet just got so angry lol Then Tate got angry and it all went downhill from there.

I don't think it's as good as the first chapter, but tell me what you think.


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